


no emotion that’s worth having could call my heart its home

by sigalsfics (ShoshanaFics)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Canon typical nightmares, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, can be read as romantic or platonic I think, japan timeskip, magical healing, no beta we die like lads and or blokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShoshanaFics/pseuds/sigalsfics
Summary: He asks without words, ‘do you trust me?’Zolf and Wilde have seen a lot. They’re not very good at talking about it. But they try.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	no emotion that’s worth having could call my heart its home

“Did I ever tell you what it was like?” He says, and it’s such a little thing, but Zolf thinks, he must really be out of it, if he can’t conjure up what exact information he’s shared with whom in that brilliant filing cabinet of a mind he has. For what it’s worth, he hadn’t ever given details, only a factual, emotionless briefing, so Zolf tells him so. His face grows grim underneath the bandage.  
“You shouldn’t try and speak,” says Zolf, cutting him off, and it may not be the right thing to say but he does anyway. “You’re just gonna hurt yourself. Just- look, this is gonna take a couple days to heal properly, alright? They got at you with a magically poisoned blade. Like I told you, I’ve done my best, but... you need to... just take it easy for a bit, alright? At least until the morning.”  
“It was terrifying,” mumbles Oscar, words slurring, although whether that’s due to pain or muscle damage or the multiple healing spells and potions is hard to say. Half of his face is hidden under a mass of bandages, and the half that Zolf can see is bruised and bleary. “Like a nightmare. And every time you wake up, you wake up into another nightmare.”  
“Alright, Wilde,” says Zolf helplessly.   
“At some point I just accepted I was going to die like that,” he continues in that horrifyingly nonchalant tone. “Had to keep working, so I did. No one else to do the job.” He pauses for a second, trying to make a face with only half available. “No one else to do the job.”  
It is laughably easy to push Wilde back down as he begins to struggle into a sitting position. Or it would be laughable, if he didn’t look so frighteningly pathetic. “Nope, don’t even try it,” says Zolf, as Wilde fixes him with what he clearly intends to be his best indignant stare, the effect of which is ruined slightly by the fact that only one eye is visible and he’s so obviously out of it, already beginning to fall back asleep. “All you’re gonna manage to do is hurt yourself more.”  
One piercing eye fixes on him once more. Pleading. “Don’t leave.”  
It’s a humble, desperate request. Zolf wouldn’t have denied if he could have.

* * *

Wilde and Zolf are in the kitchen, a familiar tableau. Zolf is chopping vegetables with practiced nonchalance, and Oscar’s leaning elegantly back against the counter like he always does, and it’s wrong, it’s so _wrong_ , because someone should be talking. Wilde should be talking.  
Zolf steals a glance at him and his heart does that strange little sink again. It’s easy to miss if you don’t know him well, that constant look in his eyes that belies the gears turning constantly, the everpresent information processing, ready to churn out a new plan or a new pun depending on the situation. But now he’s just staring into space. His eyes aren’t glassy, he’s not zoned out. They’re cold, hard, and giving nothing away, even to Zolf.  
And just below the eyes, that long, jagged scar distorts the face he’s come to know so well, the face he’s learned to read like a favorite book.  
They shouldn’t have let him get up & wander about like this. He had insisted this morning that he was fine, that he wouldn’t do anything reckless or stupid, that he could handle himself, but, well, he’s buttoned his vest wrong and it’s been hours and he still hasn’t even noticed. It’s so unlike the man it makes Zolf want to hit something.  
He chops a carrot top off with more force than necessary and it goes shooting off under the table. He grumbles under his breath and goes to fetch it, but Wilde beats him to it, still silent. As he stands back up Zolf sees him wobble, visibly dizzy just for a moment, before steadying himself on the counter and handing out the carrot top for Zolf to take as though he wasn’t now three shades paler than he was a moment ago. Zolf takes the carrot top and fixes him with what he hopes is a withering, sarcastic glare. It’s pretty far from what he intended, but Wilde, off in some private, pragmatic, angry world of his own, doesn’t even acknowledge it.  
Zolf returns to his vegetables.

* * *

They keep their bedroom doors unlocked at night now- the risks of not being able to get in and help in case of emergency outweigh the risks of someone getting in with intent to hurt, and if someone really wanted to kill them they’d find a way in anyway- so Zolf is in the room about six seconds after hearing the scream. However, instead of every horrifying scene that can flash through his mind’s eye in six seconds, all he sees is Wilde, who jumps violently as the door crashes open, bolt upright in bed with his hands over his face, eyes wide with residual terror.  
Barnes and Carter appear loudly behind Zolf in the doorway, Carter brandishing one of the daggers he insists on keeping by the bed despite the fact that he’s nicked himself in his sleep enough times for it to not be funny anymore. Zolf puts a hand out to stop them. “You alright, Wilde?” He calls into the dark.  
In the light from the hallway, Zolf watches him pull himself back into some level of decorum. “I’m alright. Thank you,” he says, in a calm, low tone that almost sounds like he hadn’t just screamed like all the demons of hell were after him, a vocal chord-scraping screech that made Zolf’s throat hurt in sympathy. “Go back to sleep. It was nothing.”  
Zolf turns to the other two and mouths the word ‘nightmare’, trying to indicate with his eyes that he’ll take care of it even though he has no idea how to take care of it. Carter looks like he’s about to say something, but Barnes takes his arm and leads him out before he can speak, bless him. Of course they understand. This new world has more than enough nightmares to go around. Barnes pulls the door shut behind them, and Zolf and Wilde are alone with the ever-present sound of the rain.  
An eternity passes. “I’m sorry for waking you,” Wilde says eventually. “Wasn’t asleep.” Wilde gives him a look that says, I would chastise you for that but I know you’d only call me a hypocrite, and you’d be correct, so I’m making do with my special Knowing Look. His hair is mussed from sleep, and even with the darkness leeching the color from his vision Zolf can see a bit of fresh dark blood blooming like a flower on his cheek.  
“You want me to fix that?” Zolf asks gruffly, gesturing to his own face before remembering that Oscar’s eyes might not have adjusted to the low light yet. “You’ve pulled some of your stitches.”  
“Mm. Erm... if it’s not too much trouble, yes please.” Wilde touches his cheekbone and winces, apparently noticing the pain for the first time. Zolf sits beside him on the edge of the bed. He can’t help but notice how Wilde is shaking.  
Healing spells often raise your temperature- it’s one of the reasons you’re supposed to space them out, not lump them on all at once. Zolf takes a small amount of reassurance at the fact that the heat coming from Wilde is proof that the healing is doing something, but he still feels uncomfortable knowing that as he places a hand on Wilde’s shoulder and channels positive energy, he’s only adding to his discomfort. He really is shaking quite a bit. Zolf leaves his hand there for probably a little bit too long, though he’s unsure why.  
Wilde sighs. “Are you done playing nursemaid?” There’s a certain crackling edge to his voice that Zolf recognizes, although it’s not one he’s ever heard from Wilde before. It’s classic Oscar, brusque and biting, ready to get back to doing What Needs To Be Done and fed up with the general irresponsibility of the world, but it’s breaking at the edges.  
He sounds genuinely upset. Which is new.  
“Yes. Well.” Zolf removes his hand like it’s been burned- which, that reminds him. “Actually, I’m gonna do a quick heal check on you, if that’s okay? Just, while I’m here. Might as well.”  
Wilde sighs again, rolls his eyes. “Do you need me to do anything, or...?”  
“Just- lay back for a minute. Relax. You’re alright, I’d just like to make sure we’re not heaping too much healing on you at once.”  
Wilde’s face would screw up, if it could anymore. “Is that usually a problem?”  
“Can be. There’s a reason some things take longer to heal even when you can magic them.”  
“Hm.”  
“How’re you feeling?”  
“Fine.”  
_Sigh_. “Stitches?”  
“Are they still in?”  
“Yeah, you didn’t actually break any. Just pulled ‘em. Try not to do that anymore, please.”  
“If they’re still intact then I’m fine. I’d rather not have to have someone sew up my face again, it’s not exactly the most... pleasant experience.”  
“Then don’t- whatever.” Don’t have night terrors? Don’t wake up screaming? The elephant in the room is nearly hitting Zolf over the head with its trunk, but he valiantly ignores it. “Anything else?”  
“No-pe.”  
“You’re shivering.”  
“It’s _cold_ ,” says Oscar petulantly.  
“It’s the middle of August and just about humid enough out there to drink the air. You’ve got a fever,” says Zolf brusquely. “Be lucky it’s from the healing and not some horrible infection or something.”  
Wilde considers this. “I suppose you’re right,” he says. Another shiver runs through him.  
Zolf watches him for a moment. “If I leave,” he asks slowly, “are you actually gonna go back to sleep, or are you gonna try and get up and do paperwork?”  
Wilde glares at him, but there’s no fight in it. Zolf doesn’t need darkvision to see the bags under his eyes. He feels an unexpected surge of protectiveness.  
“Please at least try and get some sleep tonight, Wilde.”  
“I will try.”  
“Are you just saying that, or will you actually go to sleep?”  
“I said I’ll _try_ ,” Wilde says testily, then winces as he accidentally pulls at his stitches again, which seems to sober him a bit. “It’s... difficult, lately.”  
“...I understand.”  
Wilde looks at him, then looks away. Then looks at him again. Zolf avoids his gaze. The sound of the rain fills the warm, dark room once more, covering his words like a blanket.  
“Do you?”  
Zolf stares out the window. “I’ve seen a lot of things,” he says quietly. “Lately it’s been...”

_He’s leaning over Sasha’s body, trembling, holding her heart in his sweating palm; he’s trying to remember where exactly it goes and he’s panicking, he can’t remember anything, all his medical training is gone, and as her still-beating heart slips from his hand and falls in a horrible red splatter to the floor she opens her eyes and screams in pain and fear and betrayal; the glowing tanks around them shatter at the sheer force of her grief and wash Zolf away in a wave that is too powerful to even try to fight, all the way out to sea; the tempest swirls around him and he crashes dizzily in and out of the waves, reaching out, flailing uselessly as bits of broken ship dance madly through his line of sight; something is watching him fight this panicked, losing battle to stay afloat, and in a flash of lightning he catches a glimpse of where his legs should be, and then where his thighs should be, and as he watches helplessly as he dissolves into ocean from the bottom up he knows the something is disappointed in him; in a matter of seconds his lungs are not filled with water, they_ are _water, and he will spend an eternity drowning in himself..._

“...hard,” Zolf says.  
When Wilde finally speaks again, it is a whisper. “It’s never just one thing, is it?”  
“No.”  
“Sometimes it’s like every mistake I’ve ever made decides to come back for me at once.”  
It’s tinged with a weak attempt at a joke, and Zolf barks out a tired laugh. “I know that feeling.”  
Zolf realizes suddenly how close they are, as Wilde’s eyes meet his with a sudden intensity that throws him completely. “I wish you didn’t have to,” says Wilde.  
And there’s that feeling again, the one that for the past year has been haunting Zolf like so many ghosts he never seems able to shake. It comes, like it does every time, hitting him from nowhere with the force of a freight train and bowling him over like a wave washing him out to sea. A complete, overwhelming feeling of; I see you. I understand you. I know you.  
He asks without words, _do you trust me?_  
And Wilde begins to cry.  
It’s not loud, not dramatic in any way. His eyes begin to shine slightly, his mouth tightens, and all of a sudden the tears are pouring down his face like a dam has burst. He looks terrified, and it feels like a dagger in Zolf’s chest to understand that part of that may be the fear of losing it in front of someone else, even if that someone else is Zolf, who could never in good conscience blame him for it. He reaches an arm out cautiously, and after a moment of hesitation the shaking, shaken man buries himself in his shoulder with an earthquake-like sob.  
For a while, that’s it. Zolf adjusts himself slightly, swinging his legs up onto the bed, and Wilde attaches himself to Zolf’s chest like a drowning man clutches to a life raft. The sound of Oscar’s choked sobs create a melancholy harmony with the rain- even without his magic, the man is a symphony. Zolf embraces him without thinking, one hand on his back, one hand carding gently through his soft, dark hair. The room is warm and dark and small, and Zolf decides he will stay there until Wilde has cried himself out, although ‘decides’ may, he concedes, be too strong a word. He suspects that even if he could leave, he wouldn’t.  
He doesn’t want to ask what Wilde dreams about. Not yet.

* * *

  
There is a faint grey coming through the shutters when he next opens his eyes, the washed out, unreal light of just-before-sunrise through clouds. There is just enough time for the series of events to register and for him to freeze up instinctively before he looks back to Wilde, and his heart does an odd, unfamiliar jolt.

He’s caught the man sleeping before, usually at the kitchen table or at the desk he commandeered, surrounded by notebooks and folders and seemingly endless paperwork. But here in Wilde’s narrow bed, he’s so close he could count his eyelashes. He won’t, but he could. There is an indent in his good cheek from the seam on Zolf’s sleeve, and his hair is frizzy in a way Zolf hasn’t seen before. Zolf takes in the peaceful expression on Wilde’s face with quiet, almost reverential wonder. It feels like a gift to see him like this, all masks cast aside. There’s a bit of smudged foundation on his temple that he must have missed before bed, and Zolf suddenly has to fight away the bizarre urge to rub it off with his thumb.  
The rain hammers down outside, as it always does, and Zolf feels himself begin to drift off again. He closes his eyes and lets himself, in a rare moment of indulgence, be swept away by the feeling of Oscar’s breath on his cheek, Oscar’s hand on his chest, Oscar’s legs tangled up in his.  
If he does dream that night, he doesn’t remember them.


End file.
